


Endless

by NeverEverAfter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Bonding, Dirty Talk, Dubious Elements, F/M, Manipulation, Masturbation, Multiple Orgasms, One Shot, Oral Sex, Post-Apocalypse, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Smut, Soulmates, Vaginal Sex, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-03
Updated: 2015-11-03
Packaged: 2018-04-29 18:02:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5137427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeverEverAfter/pseuds/NeverEverAfter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam!Lucifer/Prophet!Reader</p><p>You're a prophet of the end times, but your true calling is endless and time has a way of changing your mind. </p><p>Honestly, I have no idea how to summarize this. It's a post-apocalyptic, fairy tale/fantasy soulmate AU(-ish), inspired by a poem (link in notes). Plus a metric eff-ton of physically/emotionally needy sex—wow, so thirsty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Endless

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this poem: [On Loving an Angel of War](http://crimescened.tumblr.com/post/108877849491/last-night-i-dreamed-that-i-touched-you-it-hurt)
> 
> Y/N = Your Name

In the beginning, visions tear through your skull like migraines. Savage, unforgiving things that rack your brain with agony and chaos. Colors drown in a deluge of shadow. Voices fade beneath a cacophony of noise. They come to you at all hours; no matter what you're doing, no matter where. As for relief, sleep does little, and painkillers do less. Medical bills pile up in your search for a cure that does not exist. You cannot be fixed, because by every natural standard, you are not broken.

When the shapes coalesce into pictures and the sounds arrange themselves into phrases, you assume things are getting better.

Soon, you realize that “better” is a matter of perspective. You see _everything_ then. Angry spirits, venting their grievances against the living. Monsters, masquerading as people to pluck from the flock with fangs and claws. Demons, cramming themselves into human hosts until they burst at the seams with ill intent. Black eyes, red eyes, yellow eyes...

You assume, first, what any rational person would in the best interest of self-preservation: you must be dreaming. These are just nightmares brought on by stress, your mind weaving the frayed edges together as a coping mechanism for the pain.

The problem with your theory is that all the dreams share a common thread. Every time you close your eyes, two brothers carve a path through the gloom, taking out every evil creature between themselves and oblivion. _The family business_ , they call it; _saving people, hunting things_. Their name reverberates in your mind like an echo:

_Winchester._

With time, you learn to believe, and your nightmares grow darker still. Your head is filled with talk of angels, of the demon Lilith, of the Devil. The angels know you by name, yet they call you _Prophet_ , and your affliction, _prophecy_. Through them, you hear many things.

Dean Winchester is hell-bound; _Dean Winchester is saved_.

Demons run wild, but Sam runs wilder. He drinks their blood, letting it bend him so that he might break Lilith—and break her, he does. Her death splits the earth, shatters the lock on Lucifer's infernal cage.

A brilliant flash of light like a solar flare, the glorious ringing of angelsong.

You realize the true significance of the Winchesters—human vessels for their celestial analogues. Michael. Lucifer. They are the beginning of the end. You see that the brothers will say “yes,” hear their voices in your head; loud, clear, and in perfect unison. Each will swear himself over for the sake of the other, giving consent in exchange for the promise that however this ends, wherever they go, they go together.

Even if it is selfishness, you don't blame them. How can you? You think God must be cruel, to build the world and let it burn—to have you watch. There's little consolation for that. But to have someone you love so much—enough that you'd forsake all else for their company—what wouldn't you give?

* * *

Over the course of a week, the temperature in downtown Detroit plummets a full twenty degrees, a frigid shroud covering your block and those surrounding it. No breeze, just an oppressive cold that permeates the air. It weighs down on you, ominous. Even in mid-May, you wrap yourself in thick layers before navigating the streets downtown.

You curse yourself for picking up an extra shift. The sun had dropped beneath the skyline hours before, taking the scarce remnants of light and warmth with it. As you make your way home, you dip carelessly through murky alleys and side streets—risky, considering the recent string of disappearances. There is little more than the freezing darkness to escort you. Only the occasional barking of a dog, or the distant wail of a siren.

But that's not quite right, is it?

At first you think you're just imagining things, but soon enough the sinister scrape of a second pair of footsteps behind you is undeniable. You swivel around, finding only your shadow. Spurred on by the eerie unsettling of your nerves, you pick up your pace.

Just one more block. Just one.

On the final stretch to your apartment, you pause beneath a lamp post, sparing a glance over your shoulder. No sooner do you breathe a sigh of relief than the streetlight overhead flickers and fades, threatening to die out completely. You jerk your head forward and your heart leaps in your chest.

A man is there, mere inches away. He's no neighbor of yours; yet no stranger either. You've seen him countless times before. A face in the crowd for as long as you can remember, always in the periphery. Were it not for his black business suit—out of place, to be sure—you might never have noticed him at all. And were it not for your visions, you could not have guessed what he is.

“Nice weather,” the man says, and his eyes shift to an inky black.

For a moment you're frozen in place, a deer in the headlights. A prickle of dread rakes across your flesh.

“Dangerous out here at night,” he warns, tone brimming with jest. “Never know what you're gonna find. Or what's gonna find you.”

His mouth curls into a Cheshire cat grin that makes your hair stand on end. Teeth clenched, you shuffle past him and up the front steps. You fumble with your keychain, silently praying to whatever god will hear you that you make it inside in one piece.

“You listening, Y/N?” The man raises his voice to cover the distance between you. “You should be more careful. Anything happens to you and the boss'll have my head.”

With the shaking of your fingers, it takes three tries to insert the little silver key into the lock and hurry through the outer door of your building. You jump the stairs two at a time, flight response refusing to let you rest until the apartment door is bolted behind you and every entrance is lined with salt.

* * *

One night, barely a week later, you wake up with an acute sense of déjà vu—the kind that has “prophecy” written all over it.

It had been the sole vision you'd received since witnessing the battle that was to come. You'd seen the conflict, the mayhem, the aftermath, the desolation. All of it concluded—at long last—by nothingness. For the first time in years, your head was blessedly empty, and then— _this_. It was incomplete. It didn't fit the script. It had no place, yet there it was.

And here you are.

By virtue of foresight, you're aware that you'll find a man leaning against the interior of your window, undeterred by the demon-proofing. You know that you'll recognize him as Sam Winchester, and that appearances can be deceiving.

Sitting up in bed, you clutch your sheets closer as a chill runs through you, only half-born of your bedroom's sudden decrease in temperature. The other half belongs to pure, undistilled fear. Not even precognition could prepare you for a meeting of this caliber.

On the contrary, knowing only makes it worse.

From the corner of your eye, you can make out his silhouette, a sharp outline against the moonlight that filters through your curtains. He straightens himself, aware of your attention, but stays silent. Even at a distance, he seems to tower over you. His form casts a terrifying shadow that crosses your bed and takes up sentry on your wall. You take a deep breath, the ragged exhale visible in the cold air. When you finally turn his way, his speech is low and measured:

“I would introduce myself—”

He is the solar flare, the angelsong— _Lucifer._

“I know who you are.”

You flinch at the interruption, biting down on your lip hard enough to taste the distinctive tang of blood. Those are the words that had repeated themselves in your mind, again and again— _I know who you are_. In your vision, they had seemed profoundly important. Hearing them now, they are insolence. The gravity of your potential offense creeps along your spine.

“Yes,” Lucifer says, and his voice is peaceful. He exudes a deliberate patience that you are hesitant to trust. “I thought you might.”

You don't respond. Every step he takes toward you feels like a threat. Fists clenched, you dig your nails into your palms in an effort to still their tremor.

“If you know who I am, then you know why I'm here.”

Your mind grasps at straws. The context of your vision had been limited; you hadn't seen this far. There are few reasons, you think, for which a thing like him could want a thing like you. None are pleasant. Answers, perhaps, would be the least painful explanation, yet it doesn't ring true. Your role is worth so little with the final prophecy already coming to pass. Nevertheless, you have nothing else to offer.

“Apocalypse,” you say, barely above a whisper. “B-but I'm just—just a prophet.”

The title feels strange, lingering in your mouth and taking up space. _Prophet_. It has never suited you.

“Close,” Lucifer says, seating himself at the edge of your bed. “But not quite.”

You shrink back against your headboard, cornered. His response only serves to confound you more—vague and indecipherable. Not quite what? There is nothing beyond the apocalypse—not that you've witnessed. And you are nothing more than a prophet. By your own judgment, you are barely that. Still, he watches you expectantly. You lick your lips and try again.

“You fight. You—” The weight of the next word anchors itself like a stone in your throat—paining you, without reason, as you force yourself to speak. “Lose. It ends. That's all I know.”

It aches and aches.

“Is that so?” His voice is quiet, smooth as he muses. Unshaken. He traces invisible patterns across your sheets with his fingertips. “My brother is strong. Stronger than I am, in fact; but I'm...” He examines your face, appraising each of your features with focused eyes as he searches for the right word. When he finds it, his gaze catches yours and he smiles at you, a subtle upturn at each corner of his mouth. “Resourceful. All I need is a little insurance.”

His very demeanor makes you nervous. Every one of his glances is purposeful, each movement precisely executed. Nothing extra, nothing wasted. As if he were a predator, and you prey to be devoured.

“I don't—” You swallow hard and look away. “—don't see how that has anything to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with you,” he says, and each phrase that follows is punctuated by a brief pause, the hypnotic rhythm of his words falling on your ears like poetry. “The truth is, I need a soul. Just one— _perfectly compatible_ —human soul. No substitutions. And for me, that's...”

Lucifer places two cold fingers on top of your trembling hand. Delicately drawn, his serpentine path winds up your arm, over your shoulder, along your collarbone, then down—all the way to the center of your chest.

“Here.”

Goosebumps follow naturally in his wake, but where he stops something inside of you responds with force to the contact. An almost unbearable heat presses back against his touch. The intensity of it runs through you in an overwhelming frisson, bringing a glassy layer of tears to your eyes. When he pulls his hand away, you can feel the warmth beneath your sternum flutter, like a bird beating its wings against the confines of its cage. Reflexively, you clutch both hands to your chest.

As the sensation fades, your mouth becomes too dry, your resurgent panic too great to form a verbal response. You can only shake your head.

“I won't take it from you, Y/N.”

The sound of your name is unusual somehow. Unfamiliar, like hearing it for the first time. Your eyes jerk up, searching for a hint in his expression, but you find nothing new. Just the same passive smile, his predacious edge hidden behind a beguiling mask.

“I only ask that you share,” he says.

You think you should refuse him outright, but it tastes bitter, feels wrong. Don't you want to refuse?

“What happens if I say no?”

He gives a resigned sigh, as if he hadn't expected resistance. Whether that's a token of his pride as an archangel, his perception of your weakness as a human, or something else entirely, you can't be sure.

“You know how this ends,” he says. “Whether it's Michael or me, the bottom line stays the same.”

Lucifer's voice is soft, his smile melancholic, and his eyes are laced throughout with sympathy. All of this, you assume, is patently false—a treble hook to pierce your flesh and reel you in.

“But _this_...” he says, hinting at sincerity with knitted brows. “A million souls couldn't do for me what yours can. I would keep you safe.” He lets that sink in before rounding out the thinly veiled ultimatum. “My brother isn't as generous as I am.”

“ _Why?_ ” you ask absently, almost breathless. “Why would I want that?”

The question is as much for yourself as it is for him. It's not that you want to die—far from it—but the alternative would be worse than death. The end that you'd seen is barren, devoid of people. In spite of the Host's promises of paradise, Michael is a soldier, not a savior, and humanity itself will be collateral damage in his war. The kind of protection Lucifer offers is solitude; loneliness. You wouldn't wish that on anyone.

“Because I know you, Y/N,” he says. “Better than anyone. I know what you need, and you'll have it. You won't be alone—not ever. You have my word.”

That is enough to give you pause; enough to crack the carapace of common sense. Lucifer's promise slips through the breach in your armor like a serpent, the intoxication of its venom flowing through your veins. Your stiff posture slackens as you begin to let your guard down.

“What do I have to do?”

With a careful slowness, he raises one hand to the side of your face, cradling your jaw and leaning intimately close. He brushes his thumb back and forth across your bottom lip, watching you all the while as if he expects you to bolt. You can feel the furious pounding of your heart as your body pleads with you to do just that, but your mind is resolute. You close your eyes, swallow what remains of your fear, and wait.

“You'll have to accept me,” he says, bringing his mouth near enough that it makes contact with yours at every word. “Just say yes.”

God help you; it feels like everything you've ever wanted, and you have nothing left to lose. _What wouldn't you give?_ You whisper your response against him like a vow:

“Yes.”

Your consent parts your lips, making way for something else to slip past them, ethereal and light. The foreign chill is like water in the way it spills into your throat, filling your lungs and wrapping its tendrils around your heart. It ignites a spark in you, welcoming the native flame that engulfs it like wildfire.

Behind your closed eyelids, an eternity is compressed into an instant. Light refracts off a million different surfaces. The world around you is white and gold and feels like home. Everywhere you look, you find the faces and forms of your company. None of them are human, but each is familiar and well-loved. Their voices resonate together like a carillon and chiming laughter echoes across the high ceilings. You know their conversations by heart.

It's a far cry from any vision you've had before. More like a memory; the joy that it evokes is unparalleled. All beauty and no pain.

You long to wrap your arms around it and never let go, to soak it in until it fills you to bursting, but the moment is already gone—torn away. Nothing left behind but a fathomless void and the rush of falling—infinitely far and impossibly fast.

You brace yourself for impact, but all you can feel is the plush support of your mattress, your hands clenched in a white-knuckle grasp of your sheets. Gasping for air, your breaths come hard and heavy. You struggle to remember what you'd experienced, but the details are out of reach. They swirl around the outer edge of recollection, nebulous and impossible to pin down—faces that come up blank, words that hang from the tip of your tongue.

Inside your room, you're completely alone.

* * *

Morning approaches slowly, and you are unable to sleep. Hour after hour is spent lying in your bedroom, yet exhaustion never takes hold. You blame it on adrenaline and your own humanity. After all, who could sleep with the knowledge that everything would soon be ending?

When another night goes by, and then a week, you realize that nothing about you is right. You don't tire. You don't hunger. You don't worry about the world beyond your door. For lack of any other explanation, you consider the possibility that you are dead—that this is Heaven, or something far worse.

Venturing outside, you find the streets abandoned. Blocks become miles as you wander further and further out in search of the companionship you were promised, to no avail. All of creation is in repose, and yours is the only restless soul.

One month and you leave Detroit behind you, declaring Lucifer a liar.

One year and you accept your fate, refusing to look back.

One decade; one century.

* * *

As your existence marches on, discerning the passage of time becomes difficult. The rising and falling of the sun begin to seem less like a start and a finish, and more like waves on an endless sea. You stop wondering what day of the week it is. There's no such thing.

It's a peculiar feeling, watching the world around you change while you remain incapable of it. You learn the worth of moments, more precious than years, if for no other reason than this: years pass in the blink of an eye; moments linger. You've spent far more time as an immortal—if that is what you are—than you ever had in your old life, by factors of ten. What you lose over the course of a millennium, you find you can make up for in a single sunrise. Those are what you live for, when you have nothing else.

To distract yourself from loneliness, you plant gardens in every corner of the country, watching the flowers sprout from the earth and blossom in real-time. To stave off boredom, you read through entire libraries before the walls crumble and the pages turn to dust. And for no reason other than a steadily growing sense of impatience, you take one last walk back and forth along the the east coast, just before it's swallowed by the Atlantic.

You are able to ignore the sharp cut of rocks beneath you, having realized long ago that wounds heal as soon as they are received. Your bloodied feet need no more attention than the steady tide of water that rinses them clean.

Sitting at the edge, you wait just long enough for winter—curling and uncurling your toes in the ocean as it gets ever cooler. You think you must have preferred warmth once, but cold is the greater solace now. Lying back, you let the chill wash over your naked form like a blanket. Surrounded by a lullaby of waves breaking on the shore, you do something you hadn't thought yourself still capable of.

You fall asleep.

* * *

 When the dark haze pulls you under, you dream of blue and white. It burns in a ring around you with all the intensity of a flame, but none of the heat. Running a hand through it is irresistible. It's beautiful beyond measure, immaculate, and—what's the word?

Divine.

“I know who you are,” you say with a smile—your first in a very long time.

The voice that answers isn't human—it rings like a bell and the language it speaks is nothing like yours—but you adore it nonetheless.

_Who am I?_

Oh, you have so many answers. How would you even know where to start? A silhouette against your window. A shadow above your bed. A pair of fingers along your arm. A thumb across your lip. An almost-kiss. Every single one of them fills you with a longing that is impossible to quantify or qualify, never mind express with words. You couldn't do them justice, and so you don't try.

“You told me I wouldn't be alone,” you say instead, but it lacks bite. Any anger you had, any resentment, is forgotten.

_Are you?_

The white-blue glow rises and twists in the shade. You can feel the reflection of it within your chest—a human soul and an angel's grace, intermingled in such a way that makes them inseparable—but there's something missing. You're still human; desiring contact, the unique comfort of skin on skin. You still want that.

“It's not the same,” you say, wrapping your arms around your torso—a poor substitute for the real thing. “I want to see you.”

For a long time, he doesn't answer. You press yourself closer to the light, leaning in to feel it against your cheek, cool and pure.

_I could still break you._

“I'm not afraid,” you insist, and it's true. You had been frightened of him once; before he'd bled into you, spirit to spirit, and dwelled there as though he belonged. Your fear has since been outgrown—replaced by something much stronger, more persistent. The indefinable wells up in you now and you long to lay it bare, give it a name.

_That is foolish._

“I don't care.”

Again you wait, this stretch of silence even longer than the first—an all-consuming emptiness that begs to be filled. You set your jaw stubbornly, holding your breath until your chest aches. Even without his permission, you have all the time in the world and twice the determination. You can't remember the last time you've wanted something so much. Have you ever?

_Come, then._

Music. His voice is music. You could almost cry.

“Where?” you ask, but you are already opening your eyes.

An early spring morning greets you. In the western sky, the last bright star refuses to fade. It's not so far away.

* * *

 The Detroit you find is not the one you'd left, its border enforced with walls of white marble. The barrier stretches for miles around without fault or fracture, save for it's sole gated entrance—immaculate gold, inlaid with pearl.

Beyond it, there is none of the rubble that you'd grown accustomed to seeing in the ashes of human civilization. Instead, a labyrinth of gardens stretches out before you, vivid with color. To see it now, you can scarcely believe that the world outside hadn't been black and white all along. Here, everything is alive. Flowers and trees of every description grow over dozens of square miles without regard to climate or season. Some you recognize; many you don't.

You pass beneath golden trellises, lavishly overgrown with hanging purple lilacs and their green, heart-shaped leaves. Further in, there are vibrant red rose bushes in perpetual bloom. Their fragrance is dizzying.

Just before you reach the middle, you find the fruiting trees—your favorites being the lines of peach that flank either side of a curving stone path. You haven't known hunger in ages, and truthfully you haven't even been tempted until now. The sight of the fruit, blushing red and bursting with ripeness, makes your mouth water.

It strikes you that the trees aren't yours; that for all his trouble of planting them here, you shouldn't take from them without asking. But only for an instant, as the harmonious pulsing around your heart sets you free enough to laugh at the irony that anything in Lucifer's garden would be forbidden. Laughing, truly. You hadn't done that in ages, and it leaves your sides with a pleasant ache. Considering that permission enough, you take a peach in each hand and eat them both to the pit, reveling in the sweetness of the juice and the way it seems to linger on your tongue even after you've moved on.

What you find in the center, past the orchards, takes your breath away—a tremendous palace, reaching up toward the darkened sky as stars begin to pass overhead.

The firelight drifting out from the windows is all the invitation you need.

* * *

Once inside, the only hints of movement or sound come from the living flicker of flames and the soft padding of your feet against the marble floor. The incandescent orange is lovely in its own right, but you can only imagine how stunning your surroundings would be in the brightness of morning—one million points of sunlight dancing across every curve of the cathedral-like vaulted ceilings.

In the middle of the main hall sit four golden thrones and four great statues. Each of them are constructed of the same raw materials —white, gold, and gleaming in the low light. The subjects are terrifying and beautiful in a way that defies description. _Inhuman_ —similar, but not the same.

Their slender bodies and long limbs are composed of interlocking plates—a seamless, natural armor that is covered in fine, thorny ridges and intricately marked with Enochian runes. You can't see their faces. Their heads and shoulders are cloaked, draped in meticulously carved folds of cloth that continue downward, wrapping tightly around their slim torsos and hanging loose from the waist like tunics. Each statue boasts six massive wings, held flush against its frame. As shadows dance across their surfaces, they seem to gesture to one another with their hands, the elongated fingers ending in sharp points like talons.

You can't escape the nagging surreality that you've seen them somewhere before, known their voices. To be with them now, more quiet than they were ever meant to be, leaves a sympathetic ache in your chest—a bone-deep, bittersweet grief. The archangels—all of them but one—are nothing more than memories wrought from cold marble and precious metals. You feel the loss as though they were your own family.

Outside—beyond the walls—you hadn't felt much of anything for a long time, most emotions dulled from disuse. In here, it seems they run the gamut, and are multiplied tenfold. What should hurt, hurts more, and what doesn't is bliss. Fair enough, you think. Having known it once, you'd be loath to have it any other way. One thousand years behind you couldn't compare to your one day here—life as it's meant to be lived. Immortal or not, you question the worth of anything less.

All of this is reason enough—to stay now, to stay forever if you can, and yet you haven't even seen him. _Him_ , the very reason you are here. You pray fervently that he won't change his mind, turn you away; you couldn't bear it.

You know that you have to go _up_ , can feel it tugging at your soul, and when you find a spiral staircase, each step you take makes your feet feel lighter. At the top, you make your way through one unlit passage after another, your eyes adjusting gradually to the dark. The air is cooler here, and far more desirable for what it signifies.

He's here— _close_.

In the middle of the next hallway, candlelight filters out through open double-doors like a beacon, drawing you there as if you were a moth to its flame. You peer cautiously around the edge, not remotely brazen enough to barge into his bedroom unannounced, despite the radiant desire growing in your chest.

Every intention of making your presence known is lost to silence when you catch sight of him, half-sitting against a table off to the side, long legs stretched out in front. His eyes are fixed on a window opposite the doors, and he doesn't acknowledge you. Maybe he doesn't notice you at all.

Oh, but _him_ —him, you see with every modicum of focus you possess. His handsome profile in near-perfect stillness. His russet hair tucked behind his ears, copper highlights drawn out by the fire. His pristine white suit making him look every bit the angel you know him to be.

Physical modesty, as a concept, is primitive to you now. In an unpopulated world, the benefit of clothes had long ago been outweighed by the burden of their upkeep. You'd forgone them completely, and it had made no difference. But seeing him here, you can't help but compare his outward formality to your own centuries-old state of undress. It makes you feel ordinary, _unworthy_ , but what more could you expect?

As if on cue, Lucifer shifts in place and shrugs the white dress jacket from his shoulders, peeling it away, and lying it to rest beside him. You're sure he'll see you then, the way he turns, but he doesn't raise his eyes from his task, untucking the gathered fabric of his shirt from his pants. At the briefest flash of his bare stomach, you impulsively raise a hand—if only you were near enough to touch him.

One after the other, he loosens his cuffs, pausing to stroke his freed wrists like he'd been shackled by iron rather than opulent, well-tailored cotton. He moves his hands to unfasten the first button at the median, leaving the enticing hollow of his throat unguarded before moving to the next. His habit of rubbing each small, opalescent button with his thumb before guiding it through the slit—a delicate twist-and-press motion—sends a thrill of pleasure to the apex of your legs.

You watch, enamored, as his cream-colored shirt falls open little by little, contrasting splendidly with every inch of the flawless, tan skin beneath. Under the glow of so many candles, the sinuous planes of his torso look deceptively warm. Your fingers would know better. Your lips would know better still.

When, at last, the final button comes undone, Lucifer stands, divesting himself of the garment and placing it ceremoniously on top of the other. He bends over then, the sleek muscles along his shoulder blades tensing as he removes both shoes, both socks and rises to set them neatly beside one another on the table.

He is precise in everything. With such attention to detail, you can't fathom how he is not aware of your presence. Yet surely he isn't. Why else would he be removing what is left of his clothes with such nonchalance?

When he steps out of his dress pants and drapes them over the back of a chair, only one barrier remains. You know that you are being indelicate, but you can't help yourself, unable to tear your eyes away as he slides the boxer briefs past his hips—down, down, down. Your heartbeat hammers loudly in your ears. Can he not hear it?

He straightens himself to full height and sets the shorts aside as you remind yourself to breathe. Every last bit of him is wonderful. The torturous heat blooming between your thighs is a testament to that.

Distracted as you are, you only manage a piecemeal awareness of what manifests behind him. That the color is white, purest white. That it holds the shape of long, tapered feathers. That the plumes array themselves in the bright mosaic of a wing. Two, four, and six—stretched to span and then retracted, folded close against his back. Last among them, the most slender pair skirts the sides of his hips, draping so low that the tips of his feathers brush the ground.

Inside his true vessel, Lucifer is a thing of beauty; an intricately woven tapestry of lean muscle and heavenly grace. With those wings—a fragment of his natural form, as it was molded eons ago by God's own hand—he is beauty itself. His father would have to forgive you your speechlessness, your inability to thank him for creating something so exquisite and calling it yours.

Lucifer. _Your_ Lucifer.

You know then that he could bring you to your knees without so much as a word, have you pleading with every breath just to love him and be loved by him.

“Well?” he says, jolting you from your reverie and bringing your eyes to his. “So you see me.”

After so long, the husky, human depth of his voice is startling—a stark opposite of the high, silvery ring from your dream, but no less pleasing. Both belong to him now, and you treasure one no more than the other.

Dampness clings to your eyelashes and you blink it away. Jaw trembling, you force yourself to speak.

“You're different than I remember.”

His mouth draws into a thin line. Perhaps he dislikes the implication.

“How so?”

You sort through your memories, trying to untangle them, dissect the details. You remember the sharp cut of fingernails; the metallic taste of blood. Those things you recognize as your own, but when you search for _him_... All you seem to recall is the way the moonlight framed his face, smoothing out the chiseled lines of his features; the curved bow of his lips, and how inviting they looked when he spoke.

“I don't know,” you say finally, looking him over once more.

“And?” Lucifer paces across the room to take a seat at the foot of the bed, lifting his great wings and letting them settle behind him.

“And I want...”

“What do you want, Y/N?” He creases his brow, anticipating your answer with a slight incline of his chin.

“You,” you say, voice breathy as you come close to losing yourself in his hazel eyes—kaleidoscopic in the lambent candlelight. “Just you.”

With a huff, he leans forward and glances down. Silk sheets bunch together beneath his hands as he tightens his grip on the edge of the mattress, stilling the domino effect of a quiver that has begun working its way through his feathers. Yearning to ease the inexplicable strain that has gathered around your heart, you move tentatively in his direction. He straightens at the sound of your footsteps and looks up, stopping you in your tracks.

“Me?” he asks. A small, rueful smile pulls at the corners of his mouth. “Are you so sure?”

Lucifer tethers you in place with his gaze alone; warning you—one last time—that he is peril; he is pain; and you are only human.

“I am,” you say, unburdened by hesitation. “Yes.”

A twitch of his lip, and his smile widens.

“Come here.”

You close the distance, pausing just short of the gap between his knees. Merely being this close, you can feel the bond between you, humming like static in the air. Pulling like gravity.

“Here,” he repeats, clarifying his intention with a gesture of welcome—strong arms held out in such a way that promises a gentler touch.

That, to you, is home.

You climb eagerly onto his lap and straddle him with your knees, reveling in the fleeting brush of feathers against your thigh. You long to touch him, but you can't decide how to begin, your hands hovering uselessly in midair until Lucifer captures them with his own.

“You were made to be mine, you know,” he says, bringing the inside of your wrists to his lips, one after the other, before guiding your palms to rest on his hips.

Yes, you know that. By now you do; you only regret that it had taken so long. So much time wasted with your hands buried in the earth or idling on the pages of books when they could have been here, right where they are now. _His_ hips, _his_ skin. You grip him tightly, feeling the tickle of his soft hair against your throat as he lowers his head, resting it next to your own.

“He put you together so carefully, Y/N.” Lucifer trails chilled kisses upward along the slope of your neck, his large hands scaling your torso. They find their mark at your breasts. He cups them and brushes rough thumbs across your nipples. “But I know how to make you come apart.”

You respond with a gasp, feeling the delighted curve of his mouth on your neck. Everything in you comes to life at the barest of his touches, each nerve singing hallelujah.

“Will you let me show you?”

You shiver then, but not from the cold; not from fear. With one hot, shaky breath, you paint your answer onto your lips and let it seep through his skin at the vulnerable junction below his jawline. You linger there, feeling him swallow back a hum of satisfaction.

Hands at either side of your jaw, Lucifer guides you to face him, tilting his head as two pairs of lips make their long-awaited reacquaintance. Far too long. Your pulse flutters beneath his touch and you sigh against him as he kisses you properly—paying homage to your lips with his tongue and teeth.

“Lucifer...”

His name could be honey, how it settles on your tongue—sweet and everlasting. It must be. He is ravenous in his desire to taste it; his covetous hands entangling in your hair. For his sake, you would say it a thousand times. A thousand thousand; singing it at the top of your lungs, never tiring of the violent tremors that cross his wings from root to tip.

“You say you want me.” The timbre of his voice is a paradox—satin gliding over gravel. “How much, I wonder?”

With one hand he pulls down on your hair, forcing an upward tilt of your chin that exposes the skin of your neck to every sensation his indulgent mouth can offer. The other roams far lower, where the answer he seeks is more than obvious.

“I never thanked you properly,” he says, running the pads of his fingers along your slick crease. “Where are my manners?”

You let out a yelp of surprise, pressing hard into his hips.

“How is this for repayment?” Two fingers slip between your folds, the cold a merciful contrast to the aching heat inside you.

Lucifer's name escapes you in a moan, grateful as you are for the attention. Grateful, too, for how the sound of it drives him wild, fueling his fingers to work in and out at a vigorous pace. Your body responds to him like a well-tuned instrument to its master, and he is eager to devour every wanton note that leaves your lips.

“Perfect,” he purrs, lowering his head to nip at the swell of your breasts, sharp canine against soft skin. “I have so much to give you, Y/N.” He mouths the tender flesh, his icy breath ghosting over you. “Everything you deserve.”

With his tongue at one nipple and his free hand delivering delicate pinches and twists to the other, you can no longer contain the rapture that reaches its crescendo in your core. It courses through you unhindered, leaves you shaking, and you bury your face in the crook of Lucifer's neck.

“There,” he says, lazily withdrawing his fingers as the sensation within you ebbs away. He lifts your chin with his hand, coaxing you to face him. The dark, limitless depths of his pupils are blown wide, thinning the hazel rings around them. “Didn't I tell you I was generous?”

 _Generous_ , you think, _yes_. And you want to be equally so, longing to worship him in every way that he'll allow.

“Please,” you say, still breathless, your mouth hanging open. “What can I do?”

“Whatever you want.” He traces your parted lips with a finger that's still damp from your arousal. “That's the beauty of it.”

For the first time, you allow your hands to wander from their claim on Lucifer's waist. Each hand mirroring the other, you map out his body beneath your fingertips, finding each new place your favorite. _This_ , the masculine crest above his hip. _This_ , the rippled layer of muscle across his rib cage. _This_ , the graceful curve of a wing.

He thanks you for the last of your gifts with a low, animalistic moan and dips his head to your shoulder. Tightening your grip, you rub your hands along the top arcs of his wings and ruffle the small, scalloped feathers that adorn them. In your wildest dreams, you could not have imagined it—to have an archangel shudder under your touch and whisper your name like he needs you.

“You like this.” The awe-struck tone of your voice turns the statement into a question.

“More than you know,” he says.

But you know plenty. You could measure it in inches, the whole, hardened length of him pressing into the back of your thigh. Giving yourself to him right then, right there is a tempting prospect—the thought of taking your time even more so. What do you have if not empty time, and an infinite desire with which to fill it?

You release him, pulling away and slipping from his lap despite his groan of protest. On unsteady legs, you make your way around to kneel on the bed behind him.

“How about this?” you ask, drawing a line of gentle kisses that starts between his shoulder blades and ends at the base of a wing. The well-muscled joint is velvety-smooth beneath your lips.

Grasping his feathers by the handful, you drag your fingers down through the contrasting texture of sturdy quills and downy vanes. You repeat the process many times over, caressing each of his six snowy wings as far as your arms will reach. Every one of your motions adds to the litany of carnal noises Lucifer makes as he pushes further and further against you in a bid for more attention. So far, in fact, that in no time at all the recline of his body has forced you to reverse several paces—his back now flat on the mattress, head resting in the rift between your knees.

“If you had any idea, how hard it is to resist you—” he says, voice dropping a full octave as he wraps one hand around his swollen cock, thumb brushing away the precome beading at the tip. “—you wouldn't dare.”

Oh, but you _would_. And you _do_. As soon as he starts to move, you match his strokes with your own, back and forth across the powerful lines of bone and muscle that make up the arms of his wings.

“I'm going to take you,” he growls in between rough gasps. “Own you, in every way.” His eyes are bright, burning up at yours. “I'll have you begging, screaming my name.”

He writhes on the bed, breathtaking at his own mercy. All his muscles tense; feathers rustling as he drags his wings across the silk sheets, unable to keep them still.

“Tell me, Y/N,” he says, turning his head to press needy, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thigh as he pleasures himself. “Tell me you want that.”

You are rapt in reverence, so far beyond _want_.

“I need you,” you pant. “Please, I need you.”

In a single movement, he reaches back with his free hand, tucking it under and around your thigh and pulling you forward on your knees. With the slightest backward tilt of his head, you all but collide with his waiting mouth. He capitalizes on your precarious balance above him, his fingers almost bruising in their strength as he yanks you down.

Lucifer moans at the taste of you, his deep, rich voice muffled by his voracious adherence to your body. He is insatiable, refusing to let you pull away as he nuzzles into your plush folds, sucking on your clit with a diligence that borders on devout. You dig your nails into his feathers, the tension inside you building until every one of your ragged breaths is a prayer in his name.

Your instincts are polarized—so nearly undone by the approach of a second orgasm that you contradict yourself, strung taut between entreating him to wait and wanting infinitely more. Lucifer shows himself no more respite than he shows you, working his cock with a frenzied impatience. He beats his wings against the mattress and bucks into his own hand for _more._

When the rising tide sweeps over you both, you come together. For you, it's ripples, and you squirm against his mouth as they get wider and wider. For him, it's waves. He stripes his stomach with wet, pearly ribbons, the last of it dripping over the fingers still closed around his cock.

When you separate yourself from him, Lucifer moans your name under his breath. It bleeds urgency, borders on desperation, and you lean down to soothe him with a kiss. The effect is not lost on him—the illicit nature of you tasting yourself on his tongue—and he is quick to supplement it. He offers you his own release, glistening at the tips of his fingers. The very act is raw, primal—and utterly _right_. You live for the fire in his eyes as you obediently accept.

He is coffee and cloves—a subtle, pleasant bitterness that leaves the back of your throat numb—and you can't get enough. Eager to taste him again, you abandon your station and crawl to his side on hands and knees, nestling yourself between two of his wings.

“Beautiful,” Lucifer murmurs. He props himself up on his elbows to watch as you lower your head to lick him clean, your tongue dipping into the defined ridges of his abdomen. “My little human. Look how good you are.”

His gratuitous praise overwhelms you with love for him, makes you ache in the best of ways. Before you have a chance to respond, he pulls you forward—effortless. One swift motion and a flurry of feathers that leaves you pinned beneath him.

“I'm going to give you everything, Y/N.” Lucifer's cock is unyielding against your thigh—defiantly hard, even now. His celestial grace may be contained within a vessel, but he makes a mockery of human limitations. “And you are going to love me for it.”

It could be a plea, or an order. A threat, for all you care. It's true already.

“I do.”

All six of his brilliant wings fan out above you, rising and filling the air like white smoke. Lucifer hitches your ankles over his hips before sliding his cold hands past your calves and thighs.

“Say it,” he commands, gripping your ass firmly as he pulls you into position.

“I love you.”

You know what sort of creature Lucifer is. Forged in a universal desert with skin like steel, molded into dangerous edges; meant to frighten everything and fear nothing. And _you;_ you might be human—finite, fragile—but those three words make you an oasis.

“Again.”

He leans forward, pressing your knees closer to your chest as the tip of his cock teases your entrance.

“I love you,” you say, quiet and sure— _again, again, again._ “Lucifer, I love you.”

Lucifer's lips are on yours in an instant, swallowing the impassioned cry that leaves your throat when he fills you completely and then some. It is the best kind of excess. His thick cock stretches your walls as you whimper into his mouth.

At first, he manages enough restraint to move slowly. Luxurious, even strokes with enough time in between to trade kisses for captivated gazes. He lets his wings slacken and drape to either side of you. The dense patterns of white feathers form curtains, allowing only trace amounts of light to trickle through as they brush your skin.

 _See?_ you think, carding your fingers up through the long, brown hair that has fallen loose and hangs past his cheeks like a veil. _Even you can be gentle._

Lucifer smiles at you then, but the look in his eyes is a “just you wait” and the promise of an “I told you so.”

When you start moaning his name, he becomes drunk on lust and forgets what it means to be patient. He thrusts deep with a reckless abandon, one hand tangled in your hair, the fingers of the other pushing hard into your hip. You arch your back, pressing your breasts against him as his body glides over yours, the coil in your belly twisting further with each pass.

You're practically screaming it then, just like he swore you would, but you aren't alone in your ecstasy. His wings beat frantically, fierce enough that candles flicker out in the swelling gusts. The sharp, repetitive flaps are the perfect compliment to the sound of skin against skin as he slams into you. Over and over and over.

Lucifer meets you at the crossroads of his pleasure and yours. You clench around his cock as he comes hard, claiming you for his. Even after the steady pulsing has slowed to a stop, he remains inside you. He holds you close against him where you connect, pulling you into an upward tilt of your hips as he leans down to kiss you.

“My Y/N,” he says, peppering your lips with soft, devoted kisses. “My darling Y/N.”

“My Lucifer,” you murmur back.

You idly trace the dark tattoo on his chest with your fingers, but your focus is on his eyes. The moonlight glosses over them in a way that is both familiar and new.

 _Familiar and new_ , and that's all you need in the end.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I can also be found on Tumblr as [white-feather-black-ink](http://white-feather-black-ink.tumblr.com). Bonus: everything I post there comes with a handy little button that will replace all the Y/N tags in the story with your name (or whatever name you choose to enter). If you'd like to follow me there, please feel free. Thanks for reading!


End file.
